THE WAGGON 
AND THE STAR 



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MARY SINTON LEITCH 



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The Waggon and the Star 



The 
Waggon and the Star 



By 
Mary Sinton Leitch 



Kiich your waggon to a star " 

Emerson 



BOSTON 

B. J. BRIMMER COMPANY 
1922 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



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Copyright, 1922 
B. J. BRIMMER COMPANY 



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AMBROSE PRESS, INC. 
Norwood, Mass. 



JAH-2'23 

C1AG90812 

X..C- I 



L 



The Waggon and the Star 

* Twas fine for Emerson to say 
Inspiring things, I know, 
But stars are oh so far away, 

And waggons very slow. 

Mine rumbles clumsily along 
On earth, altho afar 

* Tis held by silver ropes of song 

Firmly to a star. 



TO "HIMSELF" 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

For the permission, courteously given, to 
reprint poems included in this book, the 
author desires to thank the editors and pro- 
prietors of Harper's Magazine^ Poet Lore, Con- 
temporary Verse, The Personalist, The Lyric, 
The Boston Evening Transcript and The Lyric 
West Several of the poems have appeared in 
William Stanley Braithwaite's Anthology of 
Magazine Verse, 



CONTENTS 

Proem : The Poet 1 

The River 2 

An Egoist at Lynnhaven 3 

The Pagan 4 

Shadows 5 

On Being Advised to Fill in My Swamp . 7 

To My Father 8 

Crusaders 10 

The Owl 11 

The Price 12 

The Secret 14 

The Dead Thrush 15 

Sun-Rise 16 

The Magic Gown 17 

The Old Men 20 

A Husband to a Wife 21 

On Being Told That My Child Resembles 

Me 22 

One Rose 23 

The Flower 24 

Yesterday, To-day and To-morrow . . 26 

Stratford-on-Avon 28 

The Summit 29 

The Child of the Childless 30 

ix 



X Contents 

To an Aunt on Her Eightieth Birthday . 34 

Were You But Dead 35 

The Suppliant 36 

Sailing-Ship Days 37 

Sand Sailors 39 

Idolaters 40 

Nihil Nisi Bonum 41 

The Victory of the Woods 42 

My Comfort 45 

To A Child That Lived But An Hour . 46 

The Modern God 47 

Transubstantiation 48 

Waiting 49 

I Need Not Search the Sky 50 

The Song of the Shell 51 

Seen in Passing 54 

Whom Germany Refuses to Honor . . 55 

To My Mother 56 

To Romain Rolland 57 

Charlemagne 58 

The Kiss 59 

The Forgotten Grave 61 

To the Modern Spirit 62 

To a Flying-Fish 63 

The Winter Woods 65 

The Passing of Tom Champagne ... 66 

Point of View 69 

To a King-Fisher or Halcyon .... 70 

Compensation 72 



Contents xi 

The Inconsistent Pedlar 73 

The Land of Upside Down 75 

Love is Not Wholly Lost 77 

Silence 78 

Disguises 80 

So, It Has Come 81 

To a Girl of the Streets Who Befriended 

Francis Thompson 82 

To a Holly Tree 85 

My Instant 87 

Unreality 88 

A Study in Contrasts ....... 89 

To a Hermit Thrush 94 

The Turn of the Road 95 

Why do You Idle ? 96 

Renaissance 97 

Masks 99 

Why are the Dead Not Dead ? . . , 101 

Dear, Do I Hope 102 

The Vase 103 



THE POET 

In the darkness he sings of the dawning, 
In the desert he sings of a rose. 
Or of limpid and laughing water 
That thro green meadows flows. 

He flings a Romany ballad 
Out thro his prison bars 
Andy deafy he sings of nightingales 
Or, blindy he sings of stars. 

And hopeless and old and forsaken. 
At last with failing breath 
A song of faith and youth and love 
He sings at the gates of death. 



THE RIVER 

I cannot sleep ; — the beautiful Lynnhaven 
Floods thro my thoughts tonight. 
Past darkling pines it moves and willows weep- 
ing 
In many a cove and bight. 

I cannot sleep because it gleams like silver. 
Altho my eyes are sealed, 
Clear to my vision are its dusky shallows 
And starry depths revealed. 

Slowly it moves, and in a mystic silence, 
It draws me wondering, 
Out thro its shadowy portals to the ocean 
Where sails are blossoming. 

On, ever on, to strange and far adventure 
On waters wide and deep 
The river bears me thro the fragrant darkness. 
And so I cannot sleep. 



AN EGOIST AT LYNNHAVEN 

The lilies of France are wilting. 

But here in pain's despite 

The willow leaves are lilting o*er the river's 
liquid light. 

The roses of England are bowing 

In grief o'er many a grave. 

But here star-flowers are showing and green 
marsh-banners wave. 

Afar great thrones are falling 

And Famine stalks the lands. 

But here Delight is calling to Lynnhaven's 
shining sands. 

If God needs my compassion 

For the sad world's tears and sighs, 

Why flaunt in ruthless fashion such beauty be- 
fore my eyes ? 



THE PAGAN 

Thinking to shrive me in the solitude — 
By all my folly and my failure spent — 
Steeling my heart against the sight and scent 
Of tender spring, I sought the cloistered wood ; 
But Nature, scornful of my chastened mood. 
Across my vision flung a jasmine flower ; — 
How could my thoughts with such a golden 

dower 
Go clad in garb of nun or Quaker's hood ? 
Lest even the yellow jasmine be withstood 
More snares were set. Not only far around, 
About, above, did loveliness abound ; 
A firmament of blossoms starred the sod ! 
Fie on you Pagan Nature, thus to make 
Mock of a sober mind for beauty*s sake 1 



SHADOWS 

The poets croon to the orbed moon 
Their lays, — and their praise they bring 
To Apollo, the sun, the all-glorious one, 
In song as an offering. 
They sing to the stars, to Venus and Mars 
Votaries all, of light — 
But who of them sings to the shadows, 
The offspring of day and of night ? 
Who of them sings or a tribute brings 
To the shadows more lovely than light ? 
A spire of darkness, solemn and still. 
Is the cedar's shadow on the hill. 
No matter how the wind may try 
To shake its brooding dignity. 
The sycamore's shadows are dancing feet - 
Myriads of them, delicate, fleet. 
That never advance and never retreat. 
But leap and frolic while breezes play 
In the whirl and swirl of a French ballet. 
The pine trees' shadows are woven lace 
Filling the woods with an eerie grace — 
5 



6 The Waggon and the Star 

Mechlin and Cluny and fine Guipure 
Such as the knights and ladies wear 
In paintings of Coques or Lagilliere ; 
Not even Sir Walter Raleigh spread 
A carpet so rich for his queen to tread. 

The shadows are etched on the lawn and 

sketched 
On the marsh where the lilies blow ; 
Thro the crystal glass of the river they pass 
Far down to the silence below. 
Where many a faery tower and dome 
They build to give my thoughts a home. 

Let others sing to the sun and bring 

To the moon and stars their offering ! 

To the gentle shade my songs be sung 

Whose mantle over my heart is flung, 

To the quiet shade whose hush is laid 

On my spirit's stress ! 

For me full meed of happiness 

Is found in gazing on woods and meadows 

And weaving fantasies out of the shadows. 



ON BEING ADVISED TO FILL IN MY 
SWAMP 

Only a swamp ! Yet the inhabitants 
Speak in the tongue of Aristophanes ! 
Brekekekex, ko-ax, the guttural chants 
Are borne to me upon the evening breeze : 
Without my frogs the night would be too still. 
The cry too lonely of the whippoorwill. 

All day the long deft fingers of the light 
Are weaving patterns in the river reeds. 
Adventurous snails climb to a perilous height 
To view the world from swaying grass and 

weeds, 
And insects dart about on azure wing. 
They think a swamp is a delightful thing ! 

It is a painter's palette, for the sun 
Mixes his colors there ; and there the fog 
Creeping about hangs gems on every one 
Of all the myriad grasses in the bog. 
You city folk may call it drear and damp ; 
You have your pavements — let me keep my 
swamp ! 



TO MY FATHER 

" Sie horen nicht die folgenden Gesange, 
Die Seelen denen ich die ersten sang." 

Goethe 

In other years my heart was glad and young, 
The month was always May, 

But, tho my throat was all a-throb with song, 
You bade me — " Hold ! Delay 
The while that you, who know not anything 

Of life, nor height of joy nor depth of sorrow — 

May live to-day and on a distant morrow 
Then you shall sing ! " 

You who had cared to listen now are gone. 

To a far country sped. 
Where other voices sing to you — or none — 

Among the quiet dead. 
Would that my voice a starry way could wing 
To you who had for my sake loved my song ! 
To win the ear of an indifferent throng 

Why should I sing ? 

Oh, but my songs are prisoned birds and wild ! 
They beat resistlessly 
8 



To My Father 9 

Within my heart, untamed, unreconciled 
To their captivity. 
The bud does not today cease burgeoning 
Because the flower must bloom unseen to- 
morrow ; 
My soul is over-charged with joy and sorrow 
And I must sing ! 



CRUSADERS 

I see a great procession sweep along : 
Crusaders these in shining armor. Tho 
They go they know not whither, yet they go 
In brave array, a proud and plumed throng. 
Their trumpets sound and streaming flags out- 
flung 
Challenge despair and doubt and overthrow. 
And still they march, and still they do not know 
Whither or whence — or why their song is 
sung ! 

And tho all moving in the van are lost 

In shadows, others sweeping onward seize 

The fallen flags and, singing, wave them high. 

What privilege is mine with such a host. 

Ever renewed thro time's immensities. 

To march and sing my hour beneath the sky ! 



10 



THE OWL 

In the woods last night I saw an owl. 

Now Father says he was just a fowl 

Like all the hens in our kitchen yard ; 

But don't you know, it's awf' lly hard 

To believe that creature was only a bird ! 

He stared and stared and never stirred, 

But once he gave a solemn wink — 

A sort of weird and uncanny blink — 

As tho he would say it was very absurd 

That I should imagine that he was a bird. 

He was old and withered and huddled and 

grey ; 
I felt so creepy I stole away. 
I'd never dare to tell Mamma 
That he looked just like my gran'papa ! 



11 



THE PRICE 



If you should love me, all my life were spent. 
Dearest, in loving you ; your kiss would 

seal 
My lips and silence would their message 
steal. 
For, to a woman's soul, less eloquent 
Ambition is than love ; too full content 
To live in you, no longer I should feel 
My pulses throb an answer to the appeal 
Of Fame, and so my loving would prevent 
My larger living : therefore, dear, to-night, 
Stretching to God weak arms that yearn for 
you. 
With lips that tremble for your kiss, I pray 
That He will lead you from me to the light 
Of other love ; that, while you fade from 
view, 
I may have strength to turn my face away. 



II 



Dearest, I turned my face but still my eyes 
Held clear the vision of your passing slow : 
12 



The Price 13 

I stopped my hearing to your voice, but lo. 
Still my heart heard your pleadings and your 

sighs ! 
Methought that little arms in tender wise 

Clung to my neck — ah, to have held them 

so ! — 
Then loosed their clasp and, soft, there 
seemed to grow 
And, lingering, die, as music lingering dies 
Afar, the sound of little pattering feet 

That paused — and passed. With a great 
cry — " Then this. 
This were the price ! " — I turned to you ; 
oh, fast 
Enfold me, for my life is full complete 
K I do naught but love ; that loving is 
The larger living, now I know at last ! 



THE SECRET 

The woods have their secrets but I know one of 

them ! 
I have surprised a httle pool among the cold 
bare trees, 
Silent as moonlight lying 
On the chill marble of a Venetian palace court- 
yard. 
The winter, stripping the woods of their shelter- 
ing leaves, 
Betrayed its hiding-place. 
So peaceful was it I felt a rude intruder 
And crept away, treading softly on the soft 

pine-needles. 
It was a little pond but it held in its bosom a 
vast stillness 
And the shadows of three cedars. 



14 



THE DEAD THRUSH 

Is anything so dead as a dead bird ? — 

So poignantly, so pitifully mute 

The tender feathered breast no longer stirred 

By song that, more than viol, harp or flute, 

Could fill with dear delight the heart that heard. 

Lovely the wildwood was today and lush 
With flower and fern till, on a mossy bed 
Beneath my feet, I saw a hermit thrush ; — 
A singer of celestial song was dead ; — 
And suddenly from tree and flower and bush 
All fragrance and all loveliness had fled. . . . 
The twiUght falls and all the delicate hush 
Of evening vibrates with the music sped. 



15 



SUN-RISE 

Oh how we loved to see the sun arise — 

Of ttimes in' very thunder 
Of Hght — on strange horizons ! How your 
eyes 

Would fill — would flood — with wonder ! 

Full many a crimson dawning on far seas 
Have we watched, love, together ; 

Behind tall palms or pines or olive trees ; 
On hills of purple heather. 

But now unwelcome is the breaking light, 

For now it comes concealing 
Your beauty that the darkness of the night 

Had been awhile revealing. 

In vain I hold you close ! In vain I hide 
Your face ! The dawn comes creeping 

In at our shuttered window to your side 
And takes you, gently sleeping. 

Out to the church-yard. There beneath the 
flowers 
Where you have long been lying — 
Ah, dear, so long ! — you stay till night's still 
hours 
Again disprove your dying. 
16 



THE MAGIC GOWN 

I long to see the fairies, the fairies, the fairies. 
Will someone tell me where is 
The place the fairies dwell ? 
I long to see the fairies, the fairies, the fairies. 
But where their hidden lair is, 
Alas, no child can tell ! 

Now Mother sang this little song 
After I went to bed. 
And so I lay there sleepily 
With fairies in my head. 

I wonder where their lair is, 
I thought : — without compare is 
Their queen, so very fair is 
Her face, and gold her hair is ; 
I rather think her chair is 
A mushroom and her stair is 
A jasmine stalk ; her wherries 
Are nautili ; her dairies 
Are milkweed ; all her care is 
To keep the little fairies 
At work, as each one*s share is 
In gathering slugs and berries, 
Moths, caterpillars, cherries, 
17 



18 The Waggon and the Star 

For such their dainty fare is : — 
I'll go on " counting sheep " ; 
Perhaps in Dreamland there is 
Some way to catch the fairies ; 
Perhaps some trap or snare is 
The means, tho such a scare is 
Not good for little fairies . . . 
But here I fell asleep. 

Now old Jemima Jones, the cook, 
Had left beside my bed a book. 
Twas open and I seemed to see, 
Tho in the dark, this recipe ; 

" Get satin from the shining grass, 

Silk from the river's sheen. 

And velvet from the mullein leaf 

Of soft and radiant green ; 

A long pine-needle and some thread 

Of spider's web as well. 

And weave a dress whose loveliness 

Shall serve you as a spell : 

At red moon-set or pale moon-rise 

You'll be unseen of fairies' eyes, 

And so within the woodland wild 

You'll find them tho a mortal child." 

Across my face the moon-light crept ; 
Exultant out of bed I leapt. 



The Magic Gown 19 



But then, alas, I struck a light 

To see if I had read aright. 

Yes, open there the cook-book lies. 

But not to gowns of magic sheen 

All fashioned of the forest green : — 

Dull recipes for lemon pies 

And stupid puddings greet my eyes 



Farewell then to the fairies, the fairies, the 
fairies. 
For none can show me where is 
The place the fairies dwell. 
I long to see the fairies, the fairies, the fairies, 
But where their hidden lair is 
No waking child can tell ! 



THE OLD MEN 

At the edge of Point Graymalkin the pines 
stand — 
Old men, dark against the sky. 
They fling out withered arms knotted and 

gnarled. 
Threatening the river with frantic gestures, 

Impotent, grotesque, 
Daring it to trespass on their woods. 
The water, all unheeding, rises . . . and 
falls . . . 
And the arms wave in triumph. 
For the old men believe the river slunk away 
In fear of them. 



20 



A HUSBAND TO A WIFE 

Tell me, my dearest, that your love for me 
Is dead, then turn and look into my eyes. 
You still shall find a share of Paradise 
Has lingered there, for there you still shall see 
My love for you. I shall not utter sighs 
Or plaints, and standing coldly, quietly, 
I shall not touch your hand or hair, nor be 
Your lover, for my love will make me wise 
And strong to be your helper, and to hide 
My sorrow and my pain. Not hand in hand 
Into the morning, as true lovers might. 
But — tho apart — together, side by side. 
Because we share one grief and understand, 
Let us walk bravely forth into the night. 



21 



ON BEING TOLD THAT MY CHILD 
RESEMBLES ME 

I would not have you of my fashioning 
Sweet child — not yours these hands that 

spill the wine 
Life proffers ! You, with steadier grasp than 
mine, 
Shall lift the chalice high ; 
Shall drink and, drinking, sing 
The song that on my lips would never reach 
the sky ! 

Not yours these faltering feet, these strain- 
ing eyes 
That cannot see the stars for mists of earth ! 
Oh, naught have I to give you of my dearth ! 
For your clear gaze shall see 
Beauty thro all disguise. 
And winged shall be your feet like those 
of Mercury ! 

Yet for your voice of sweetness and of power 
My voice shall set the key ; my candle-light 
Shall fire your torch to flame thro all the night. 
Be, dear one — if you must 
Be aught of me — the flower 
Of all my aspirations, blossoming from 
their dust ! 

22 



ONE ROSE 

I cannot bear the beauty of one rose. 

Therefore, I pray you, give me two or three • 

A nosegay of them, that my eye may be 

Distracted and not Hnger over-long 

On one : its heart holds too much mystery : 

Within it burn the holy vestal fires 

Of all the world's deep longings and desires 

All loveliness is there ! So soft among 

Those tender petals such perfection glows, 

I cannot bear the beauty of one rose. 



23 



THE FLOWER 



I saw you in a shadowy dell 

Where one wild rose — one only — grew 

That rose my heart remembers well. 

I saw you in a shadowy dell ; 

I gazed and gazed, but could not tell 

Which was the rose and which was you ! 

I saw you in a shadowy dell 

Where one wild rose — one only — grew. 



II 



When all the world was sweet with May 
(But now alas, it is December ! ) 
We plighted troth. That blithesome day 
When a 1 the world was sweet with May 
A warbler sang a lyric lay 
Above us ; — ah, do you remember 
When all the world was sweet with May ? 
. . . But now alas, it is December ! 
24 



The Flower 25 



III 



You are too delicate a flower 

To gather for a lover's breast. 

Then bloom your frail and fleeting hour ! 

You are too delicate a flower ; — 

I leave you in your woodland bower 

Where passion's wind will not molest. 

You are too delicate a flower 

To gather for a lover's breast. 



YESTERDAY, TO-DAY AND 
TO-MORROW 

" My love, your eyes are veiled and sad. 

You grieve for Youth — her dancing feet 
And all the lightsome ways she had ; 

But still, tho yesterday was sweet, 
To-day too may be glad." 

" What matter whether sad or gay ? 
One moment we may laugh or pray 
And lo, today is yesterday ! " 

** But tho, with all its joy and sorrow. 
To-day so swiftly comes and goes, 

Yet future joy is yours to borrow ; 
The birds will sing, the buds unclose. 
Rejoice then in to-morrow ! " 

" Ah, whether skies be blue or grey — 
Come song or silence, March or May, 
To-morrow will be yesterday ! " 

" Then, since to-morrow fades so fast 
Into the shrouding mists that lie — 
26 



Yesterday y To-day and To-morrow 27 

Impenetrable, chill and vast — 
About to-day, thro memory 

Live in the happy past ! " 

" The happy past ! I say you nay ! 

For yesterday alas, alway 

Is sad because 'tis yesterday." 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

Stratford, the while I pace your streets, I see 
Naught of the throng to whom to-day is 

dear ; 
For it is yesterday is precious here. 
Upon the breeze is borne sweet Portia's plea 
For mercy ; Ariel sings, and Antony 

Summons me back to weep at Caesar's bier . 
Macbeth and Hamlet, Bolingbroke and Lear 
Rise from your storied stones and walk with me. 
Then, on a sudden, I must halt, my breath 
Stifled with feeling ; — this the very air 
That Shakespeare breathed ! Mid tender 
meadows lying 
Yon Avon smiled upon his life and death ! 
Ah, Stratford-Town, my heart can hardly 
bear 
To realize thus his living and his dying. 



28 



THE SUMMIT 

" Why should you seek to scale Mount 

Everest ? " 
They cry who blind and dreamless cannot 

know 
What fires of glory and of splendor glow 
Upon that lonely height, who think the crest 
And summit of the world a waste of snow, 
A wilderness — no more, who have not guessed 
It is the Peak of Vision where the quest 
Shall end with stars and suns to crown the 

brow. 

Oh, I shall laugh to see the moon arise 
And look upon me with a startled gaze ! 
Monarch of earth, invader of the skies, 
Triumphant I shall sing my diapase. 
While far below men crawl in clay and clod, 
Sublimely I shall stand alone with God. 



29 



THE CHILD OF THE CHILDLESS 

(A woman with the traces of great beauty in face and form 
stands before an open fire in the twilight, gazing into a mirror 
on the mantel.) 

The Woman : 

The snow is on my hair and the swift sap 
Of summer in my veins is stopped by frost. 
By my own will I am childless. 

(The form of a beautiful child that, like a Botticelli angel, 
might be either boy or girl, appears. The firelight is seen 
shining through the transparent form.) 

The Child : 

Mother ! Mother ! 
Did you not hear my cry on the night wind 
Of yearning to be nested 'neath your heart ? 

The Woman : 

I heard — ah, yes, I heard, but would not 

heed. 
Oh, but to carry in my body now 
The fluttering promise of that sweet fulfilment ! 
For I who feared to suffer should rejoice 
The while I beat the air in agony. 
30 



The Child of the Childless 31 

Let heaven and earth meet in a flame of pain 
K milk but come to burn these barren breasts ! 

The Child : 

Out of the silence brooding on the sea ; 

Out of the clouds that swept across the moon ; 

Out of the tender heart of every rose 

I called to you to give me flowers and dawn, 

Sunset and evening star and pain and love. 

I called to you : you heard and did not heed ! 

The Woman : 

Oh, come to me, my hands are over-flowing 
With roses now and they are all for you. 
You shall have stars for playthings, and my 

beauty 
That I so feared to spend, I'll give to you. 
And he for whom I guarded it will love it 
The dearer spent than hoarded. 

The Child : 

It is past — 

Your beauty ! Altho hoarded, it is spent ! 

The stars you might have given were in your 
eyes — 

Youth, hope and faith — these are ex- 
tinguished like 

A candle in the wind, and see, your roses 

Are crushed, the petals fallen thro your fingers. 



32 The Waggon and the Star 

The Woman : 

I have no gifts — it is true ! My hands are 

empty 
Of rose and star. Yet come un-gifted ; come, 
Yourself the giver ! Music of pattering feet. 
Of childish laughter, bring into this stillness 
That aches about our house and in our hearts ! 



The Child : 

I cannot cross the gulf that separates 
My soul that should have been from yours 
that is. 

The Woman : 

I can no longer bear — yet I must bear — 
To see within the eyes of him I love, 
Tho, loving, I refused him the one gift 
That most he craved, the pitiful surrender 
Of our once-dear tomorrow. While we sit 
And listen to the clock that ticks away 
Our solitary hours, we doubt and fear 
Lest now to-day is our entire possession. 

The Child : 

Alas, you would have had in me, your child. 
An immortality to grasp and hold 
Incorporate against all doubts and fears ! 



The Child of the Childless 33 

The Woman : 

And now forever I shall hear you call ! 

The Child : 

Yes, I shall whisper in the rustling leaves. 

And I shall sob low in the washing waves, 

And I shall weep whenever falls the rain ; 

For now I am but an immortal cry 

Of longing that shall drift a-down the wind : 

Yet the mysterious light of the still moon 

Shall search me out — a wraith — and give me 

being 
Unbearable to your un-childed heart. 

The Woman : 

Oh to be spared the silence, with your voice 

Piercing it thro — crying ** It is too late ! " 

The Child : 

It is too late ! . . . Mother ! 

{The firelight becomes gradually more brightly visible 
thro the form of the child, and as it disappears the arms 
may last be seen stretched out toward the mother in anguished 
entreaty.) 

The Woman : 

(Starting toward the vanishing figure, then sinking into a 
chair vnth a strangled cry.) 

My child ! ... My child ! 



TO AN AUNT ON HER EIGHTIETH 
BIRTHDAY 

Haggard and bent, with slow and weary pace. 
Have eighty winters passed you. Creeping 

nigh 
They held out withered arms that seemed to 

try 
To fold you in their harsh and cold embrace ; 
Their fingers only brushed your hair and face. 
But eighty summers, lightly tripping by. 
Have clasped you and enwound you lovingly 
With garlands of their beauty and their grace. 

Great-hearted daughter of great-hearted sires. 
In vain the years besiege you and assail ! 
Your youthful spirit holds its banners high. 
Since in my blood smoulder the self -same fires 
That flame in yours, when I would faint or fail, 
" Nobless oblige " shall be my rallying-cry ! 



34 



WERE YOU BUT DEAD 

Were you but dead, 
That yearning of the arms that clasp the dark 
When, in the hush of long night hours, I hark 
For Memory's whispers — even that agony 
Were sweet if Memory still could comfort me ; 
But Memory's sweetness is forever fled. 

Were you but dead ! 

Were you but dead. 
Some golden-rod from your gold hair might 

grow, 
A wild blush-rose from your cold cheek might 

blow, 
And all the fragrance of your grave would steal 
Across my heart and make my senses reel 
With past delight till present pain were sped. 
Were you but dead ! 

Were you but dead — 
Ah, then mayhap no longer I should crave 
The sensuous sweetness of your grassy grave. 
But, all my passion purified, should feel 
Divinest love my anguished spirit seal, 
For then from heaven my starving soul were 
fed. 

Were you but dead ! 
35 



THE SUPPLIANT 

Your sin came knocking at my heart : 
I bade it stay outside. 
" If I receive and harbour it, 
Love is profaned," I cried. 

Oh fast I locked and barred the door 
Until at last I knew 
That, holding it against your sin, 
I held it against you. 

No more I heard that knock, and you 
Were silent in your pride. . . . 
My trembling fingers on the door 
I laid and flung it wide. 

Your sin — poor, suppliant, shivering thing 
Warm to my heart I pressed. 
And unafraid and unashamed 
It shelters in my breast. 



36 



SAILING-SHIP DAYS 

The roach was in the galley and the rat was in 
the hold, 
Not to mention what was in your bunk at 
night, 
And the weevil in the biscuit — 
Well, you simply had to risk it, 
To shut your eyes before you took a bite. 
What mattered rat or weevil or any such-like 
evil 
When the muscles rippled underneath your 
skin 
As tho they'd all been oiled, 
And your stomach was un-spoiled 
And could easily digest a sardine tin ? 
What mattered anything with those great 
white sails a-swing. 
While " Set the cross-jack, boys ! " or " Top- 
sail haul ! " 
Boomed out along the deck, 
Or you gaily risked your neck 
To clear the buntlines fouling in a squall ? 
37 



S8 The Waggon and the Star 

I*m master of a steamer now and crew of forty 
men. 
And I never hear a proper sailor's damn. 
I've oflBcers, not mates, 
And we've bread-and-butter plates 
And " serviettes " with hem and monogram ! 
But I'd forfeit every button on my uniform to 
put on 
Once again the rags and tags of Jacky Tar ; 
My shiny boots and collars 
And my many monthly dollars — 
I'd give them all to sight the Northern Star 
'Twixt sagging sails that sway up and down the 
Milky Way 
Or, jBlling, fling defiance to the gale. 
I'm a gentleman in steam, 
But I'll never cease to dream 
I'm again a ragged sailor lad in sail. 



SAND SAILORS 

The boat on our beach is bedded in sand ; 
Some storm has lifted her high on the land ; 

Like the sieve of the famous Wise Men Three 

She's as full of holes as a boat can be. 
Now Father says this kind of boat 
Is very much safer that will not float ; 

But he does not know how far I go ! 
Way over the main to the land of Spain 
In an hour I voyage and back again. 

To far Peru or Kalamazoo, 

To India, China or Timbuctoo 
I sail, and the gale may howl, and the hail 
May lash, my vessel can never fail 

To ride in her pride, her wings spread wide, 

And she cannot sink whatever betide. 
I have a crew that is staunch and true — 
Brother Johnny and Barbara too. 

They think like me that a ship on the sea 
Is not so nice as a ship on the land, 
Hard and fast in our own beach sand. 



IDOLATERS 

If once again the great Gautama came 
To impious earth, what grief were his to find 
That men have made of him, whose lofty mind 
Had fired the torch of truth with searching 

flame, 
A graven image only with the name 
Of Buddha — wood and stone, grotesque and 

blind ! 
They worship that ! Like chaff upon the wind 
The truth is lost, Gautama put to shame. 

If you returned, oh Man of Galilee, 

And saw your idol that our hands have made ; 

If you gazed sadly on us as we bow 

And scrape before it, should we also flee 

Out of our temples, stricken and afraid, 

As fled the money-changers long ago ? 



40 



NIHIL NISI BONUM 

They say his heart was low and vile and base ; 
But I know only this : — I saw his face 
When spring's first shy, sweet violet met his 
gaze 
Blue-peeping from the soft and leafy shade. 

They say his mind was base and low and vile ; 
But I know only this : — I saw the smile 
That hovered wistful round his lips the while 
The great Un-finished Symphony was played. 

They say his life was vile and base and low ; 
Little I know of him, but this I know : — 
I saw his tears well up and overflow 
Beside the grave where his old dog was laid! 



41 



THE VICTORY OF THE WOODS 

** Come on, Elijah ! Forward, march ! ** I 

cried 
One winter's morning to my serving-man 
Whose threescore years and ten had only made 
His swing more sure in wielding of the axe ; — 
" Come, shoulder arms ! We'll have a tilt 

with lance 
And bayonet — your axe, Elijah — 'gainst 
The trees and shrubs that press upon my house. 
Tho Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane 
We'll drive it back ! " Elijah, proof against 
All classical allusion, understood 
Enough to lift his axe ... I bade him stay ! 
'* Lige, I forgot the eyrie in this oak. 
Year after wandering year the self -same eagle 
Returns to this same nest — the tree's a 

palace. 
The home of a great king, and heaven forbid 
That we should raze a palace to the ground ! *' 

Elijah grumbled out his Bolshevistic 
Disdain of kings. " This cedar here," he said 
** Is dour and sullen ; a pall-bearer could 
Not look more darkly." 

" Yes, I thought to let 
The cedar fall, but see, a yellow jasmine 
Has leaned her ladder up against the trunk 
42 



The Victcyry of the Woods 43 

And when June comes that glowering cedar will 
Mysteriously bloom in golden flowers.*' 

" Well then," said Lige, " I'll cut this slat- 
tern shrub." 
** What ! Laurel, Lige ? Why, laurel greets 

the spring 
With the first bridal blushes of the woods ! 
It brings the sunrise down to earth for us ! " 
" This willow then," he said, " for all men 
know 
A weeping willow is a worthless weed." 
'* Perhaps, and yet she bathes her slender limbs 
Throughout the winter in the river there ; 
You must admire her courage. When the May 
Decks her in green, she weaves the daintiest 

shadows ! 
They dance so lightly that my heart is filled 
With joyance : we will let the willow live. 
But this tall holly is too near my door. 
It pricks and tears at me and casts a shade 
Where most I need the sun . . . Yet wait," I 

cried, 
" Lijah, this holly burns ten thousand tapers — 
Perhaps for the salvation of my soul ! 
And verily, it is my burning bush 
From which God speaks to me as once he spoke 
To Moses. You and I will not commit 
A sacrilege upon it ! Let it stay ! " 
Lijah was baffled, but he persevered 



44 The Waggon and the Star 

With a fine patience : — " Here's a rotten 

stump ; 
You won't save this ? " 

" No, surely I can pass 
Sentence of death on one old rotten stump." 
The old man's axe was eager. . . . 

"Hold!" I cried: — 
" A stay of execution ! For I see 
A mesh of stems enwound about the trunk — 
Virginia creeper with its silent promise 
Of summer beauty, Nature loveably 
Hiding unlovely things in loveliness." 

The old man, muttering his disapprobation. 
Pointed to masses of low scraggy bushes 
Of huckleberry spoiling all the sward. 
" Well then, I'll get my hoe and grub up these : 
My axe don't seem to be much use today." 

" Oh, Lige, forgive me ! We must leave the 
shrubs ! 
They bring the thrushes to my very door 
To prink and preen ! These huckleberries gone 
I lose the sober-coated thrushes too ! " 

So poor old Lijah mumbled a good-night 
And trudged despondently away, no doubt 
Brooding in silence on the queer mad ways 
Of gentry ; while I passed along the path 
Uncouth with straggling bushes, to my house 
Darkened by shadows of importunate trees. 



MY COMFORT 

Dearest, if such a love as we have known 

Should e'er forgotten be, 
What gain of new delight could then atone 

For this to me : — 

That I should deem love but a fragile rose 

Fast fading while we dream ? 
Better grief's darkness since that darkness 
knows 

Vision and gleam : — 

Gleam of the star of faith that shall defy 
Time's slow forgetfulness. 

Remembering you, my comfort be that I 
Am comfortless. 



45 



TO A CHILD THAT LIVED BUT AN 
HOUR 

I have felt your lips like a delicate flower — 

Like rose-leaves — on my breast. 

I have had my hour, one life-long hour, 

I have known the end of the quest, 

And sorrow is mine forevermore 

But never the old unrest. 

Tho tears forever shall blind my eyes. 
Yet peace shall seal my pain. 
For I know why the lily blossoms and dies. 
Why the moon, tho it wax, must wane, 
I know why stars were lit in the skies : — 
On my heart a child has lain. 



46 



THE MODERN GOD 

Jehovah, ancient God of IsraeFs race. 
Our fathers' God, is God no more, for we 
Have dragged him from the sky while Calvary 
Loomed black against it, smearing on his face 
The horrid leer of Moloch, the grimace 
Of Ashtaroth that all may know that he 
Is but a god of old idolatry ; 
And now Ourselves we set up in his place. 

I fear that heavenly radiance will beat 
Too hot upon our foreheads, and that down 
We shall come hurtling like some circus clown 
Who ventures up too high for foolish feet. 
Then there will be at last no God at all. 
Better perhaps have Ashtaroth or Baal ! 



47 



TRANSUBSTANTIATION 

Here on my verandah the clematis 

Fills the air with its spiritual fragrance 

And the rich black grapes hang clustered 

In lustrous promise of ruby wine. 

But yonder I see thro a cleft in the mountains 

That frame it in grandeur — 

Softened by the tender mists of distance — 

The Battlefield of Gettysburg. 

And, sudden, from the swinging censers 

Of the delicate spiritual clematis. 

Issues the penetrant odor of incense. 

While the cluster of grapes that I hold 

Stains my palms with blood. 



48 



WAITING 

One gesture had sufficed — one look of mine — 
Last night, and you had clasped me to your 

breast. 
But I, tho fearing you had seen, had guessed. 
How deep I drew my breath lest you divine 
My love and longing, gave nor look nor sign ; 
Lightly I spoke some gay and trivial jest 
With lips that trembled. Fain they had con- 
fessed 
That all my hopes about your heart entwine ! 

Until you love me not alone when eyes 
Are lit with moonlight making lovers bhnd. 
Not with a restless, a tumultuous mind 
But with a calm sure passion that defies 
The searching day ; until you consecrate 
A peaceful heart to love, I watch and wait. 



I NEED NOT SEARCH THE SKY 

I need not search the sky for stars ; 
Down in the leaves and mould 
The checkerberry blossoms shine 
In constellations that I hold 
More intimately mine. 

I need not look to heaven for all 
My share of heavenly grace 
The while, my love, you smile on me. 
More mine the rapture in your face 
Than aught in heaven can be. 



50 



THE SONG OF THE SHELL 

Mold me — a high-explosive shell — 
Carefully, deftly, shape me well ! 
With lyddite and with mellinite, 
With fulminate of mercury, 
Fill me, fitting me for flight — 
My one wild flight of ecstasy 
Such as the bee's that weds the queen. 
Oh, make me sure and swift and keen, 
For tho I wait thro years of peace, 
Yet war at last shall bring release 
From restless, duU captivity. 

Li some far land beyond the sea 
A mother holds upon her knee 
The victim pre-ordained for me. 

Methinks I see her ! Firelight gleams 
Within her eyes that fill with dreams. 
Oh, little recks she now of wars ! 
She sings while peaceful shine the stars 

" The owl may hoot, the bat may flit 
Without ; I hold you warm and close, 
51 



52 The Waggon and the Star 

Wee, tender thing, and exquisite 
As are the petals of a rose." 

(How I laugh to hear her sing !) 

" Wee, exquisite and tender thing, 
Hush you ! See, the firelight dies, 
But the love-light in my eyes 
Is light enough for lullabies. 
Hush you, sweetling, hush and rest 
Safe and warm on Mother's breast ! " 

And I, the high-explosive shell, 
While she sings am molded well 
And deftly, and triumphantly 
I fling my song across the sea 
To the babe upon her knee : — 

" Your flesh as pink as rose-leaves — oh. 

How I shall tear and mangle it ! 

That innocent throat — the blood shall flow 

And fill and stop and strangle it ! 

And you shall lie in agony 

Beneath a pale and pitiless sky. 

Above you, waiting till you die. 

The vultures — ravenous — shall fly. 

The while I rest within your breast, 

The end and goal of all my quest." 



The Song of the Shell 6S 

I sing . . . and, soft, the baby sleeps. 
It is for me the mother keeps 
Her watch ! For this her hopes are high 
While low she croons her lullaby : — 
"The owl may hoot, the bat may flit 
Without ; I hold you warm and close, 
Wee, tender thing, and exquisite 
As are the petals of a rose." 

Aha ! That mother does not guess 
The song that I, the bullet, sing ! 
Her voice is sweet with happiness : — 

" Wee, exquisite and tender thing. 
Hush you ! Hush you, darling ! Rest 
Safe from harm on Mother's breast.** 



SEEN IN PASSING 

Brick walls and a few square feet 
Of dusty and squalid yard 
Where a poplar tree dies hard 

And a bird is singing sweet. 

At a broken pane I see 
An ancient crone who sits 
And patiently, hopelessly knits 

" One two, two three, two three." 

Then sudden the bird that sings 
Hushes her mumbling tongue, 
Gives to her heart its song. 

Gives to her soul its wings. 

For an instant the poplar tree 
Sways on a shining strand 
And the song is sung in the land 

Of love — her Lombardy. 

And then the withered lips once more 
Are mumbling, "One two three and four." 



54 



WHOM GERMANY REFUSES TO HONOR 



(An appeal in Germany for funds to keep up as a memorial 
to Goethe a house in which he had lived, met with almost no 
response.) 



Oh Germany, you crown a Hindenburg, 
A Treitschke, a Bernhardi, and refuse 
The laurels to your most illustrious son ! 
He took your harsh and dissonant syllables 
And tuned them to such beauty that the soul 
Is borne on waves of deep melodious sound 
To vast and dim cathedrals ; organs peal 
Sonorous with the sorrows of the world : 
Or, soft, a myriad unseen fingers sweep 
A myriad harps, and hidden choirs hymn, 
White-stoled, in voices virginal and clear. 

Amid the rack and tumult of the time — 
The discords of your inharmonious days — 
Unheeded is the singer, and his song 
Is silent. . . . Hark ! I hear his music still, 
Stealing thro ruined aisles and crumbling 

arches 
Of mighty temples that are dark, deserted, 
Save that the pale and pitiful listening moon 
Touches the broken altars wistfully. 
55 



TO MY MOTHER 

Your form is dim ; your hands, your brow, 

your face 
Are lost, and only some elusive grace 

Remains of you for memory to prize : — 
A fluttering bit of lace, 

A ribbon — oh, the past is pitiless 
And will not yield you to my aching eyes ! 
Is this forgetfulness ? 

Mother, not so ! For your escape is of 
The body, not the spirit, and my love 

Holds you — forgotten — intimately sweet. 
And precious far above 

The need of flesh to keep remembrance 
true. 
Forgotten ? — Ah, my very pulses beat 
In memory of you ! 



56 



TO ROMAIN HOLLAND 

(Who Remained " Above the Battle ") 

You stand a lonely figure on a height 
That reaches to the stars. About you rise 
The stench and smoke of war's grim sacrifice. 
To Baal, whom men call God — the God of 

might — 
Their altar fires flame red upon the night. 
You gaze and deep compassion makes your 

eyes 
Tender with tears for men's idolatries. 
They consecrate with song and solemn rite 
War, tho it scourges, tho it crucifies 
Beauty and loveliness and all delight. 
And you, great soul, clear-seeing anchorite. 
You they assail with harsh and bitter cries — 
But unavailing. War at last shall cease 
And men shall worship God — the God of 

peace ! 



57 



CHARLEMAGNE 



(Charlemagne was buried sitting upright on his throne, 
robed and crowned, his sword at his side.) 



He sits beneath the dust of conquered worlds 
Clothed in imperial robes, his restless sword — 
The terror once of Arab, Saxon, Moor — 
Held in that last cold grasp of lifeless clay. 
How must that spirit, tortured by the sight 
Of crumbling empires, struggle to break free ! 
How must that hand, once glorious in the strife. 
That death alone could conquer, strain to lift 
The sword and save the kingdom from its 

doom ! 
And yet he moves not ! On his shadow throne, 
While muffled sounds of kingdoms falling 

strike 
His earth-clogged ears, he reigns among the 

shadows 
Until with wide unblinded eyes he see 
All thrones and crowns lie broken in the dust. 



THE KISS 



(To the Maid) 

You call me thief ! I stole a kiss 
'Tis true, and yet 'tis hardly fair 
That you — particeps criminis — 
You call me thief ! I stole a kiss, 
But your bewitching fault it is 
For wearing rose-buds in your hair. 
You call me thief ! I stole a kiss 
'Tis true, and yet 'tis hardly fair. 

n 

(To the Bride) 

I kissed the maid and little guessed 
That lips could yield this draft divine. 
That stolen kiss was but a jest : 
I kissed the maid and little guessed 
That thus from wedded lips is pressed 
A richer, rarer, ruddier wine ! 
I kissed the maid and little guessed 
That lips could yield this draft divine. 
59 



60 The Waggon and the Star 

III 

(To the Wife) 

No kiss of maid or bride endears 
Like this, fulfilled of faith and truth, 
That has withstood the blight of years. 
No kiss of maid or bride endears 
Like this made up of smiles and tears 
Of age, my love, as well as youth. 
No kiss of maid or bride endears 
Like this, fulfilled of faith and truth. 



THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE 

I would not know the spot where Phebe lies 
In some still churchyard ; earth and sky 

and air 
Are full of her, and ever, everywhere, 

I feel her presence, sweet and strong and wise. 

But should I look upon the silent mound, 
The stone, the flowers, my thoughts would 

linger there 
While to my soul the voices of Despair 
Would whisper — " Lo, she lies beneath the 
ground ! " 

By others* tears the sullen sod be wet 

That covers the dear hands and eyes and 

hair ! 
Ah Phebe, tho I lay no roses there, 

It is the grave alone that I forget ! 



61 



TO THE MODERN SPIRIT 

You say that old beliefs are all out-worn. 
Old creeds outgrown ; and yet you cannot show 
That thorns of doubt have pricked upon your 

brow 
One gracious drop. If your un-faith were 

born 
Thro travail of the soul that left you shorn 
Of mockery ; or if the overthrow 
Of ancient altars caused your tears to flow. 
Baptizing, cleansing, ridding of all scorn 
Your unbelief : — ah, then it were a thing 
That men should honor, reverence, not despise. 
But no ! You care not if old truths be lies ! 
You grieve not that the vault of heaven should 

ring 
With empty echoes of our prayers and cries ! 
While sacred temples burn, you dance and 

sing ! 



62 



TO A FLYING-FISH 

Of bird and naiad you are born, a sprite 
Of air and ocean, wild and glad and free ! 

When white sails wing me o'er this warm de- 
light— 
The southern waste of lone cerulean sea — 

My heart leaps up whene'er in riotous flight 
You dart from watery realms of faery. 

An envious diver hides her feathered breast 
A moment in the waves, but you surprise 

The cool green secrets of the sea unguessed 
Of gull or mortal. Then, in magic wise, 

You change, and from a billow's curling crest 
A bird, you sweep into the startled skies ! 

Whene'er the spendthrift moon her treasure 
flings 
Over the waters, many a priceless gem 
You snare within the meshes of your wings 
That flash and shimmer, flare and flame with 
them — 
Such emeralds, sapphires, diamonds as kings 
Have never worn in royal diadem. 
63 



64 The Waggon and the Star 

What tender lullabies does ocean croon 

In azure depths ? Do nymphs and nereids 
smile 
Upon you sporting in the surges strewn 

With streaming stars, cleaving your course 
the while 
Mid tall sea-flowers that swing and sway and 
swoon 
Against the pillars of a coral isle ? 

A bright unerring arrow from the quiver 
Of some mermaiden you are swift up-slung. 

I watch the ocean mirror crack and shiver — 
The sparkling fragments to the breezes 
flung. . . . 

Alas, such ecstasy as yours forever 
Eludes both human heart and human tongue I 



THE WINTER WOODS 

I love the sober winter woods — the trees 

With their clean trunks and boughs that, 

clear and bare, 
Are etched against the blue, with, here 
and there, 
A nest more silent for the memories 
Of song it holds. I love the calm, the peace, 
That broods upon the frozen earth and air. 
Summer is wanton, taking thought nor 
care 
For bird or flower, and giving no surcease 
Of beauty till the soul is surfeited. 
To me the voice of one sweet feathered 
bard 
Who lingers when the rest have taken wing, 
One leaf that flames mid others dry and dead. 
One winter violet, is more reward 
Than all the wealth that summer days 
can bring. 



65 



THE PASSING OF TOM CHAMPAGNE 

It is but yesterday old Tom Champagne 
Went reeling past this house as yonder ship 
Reels in the offing. Some three years ago 
He came, a battered derelict, and cast 
His anchor in our port. None ever knew 
Whence he had come or who he was or what 
The name he bore. He boasted that his gait — 
A limping lurch and roll — was consequent 
On wounds won at the battle of Champagne. 
He must have meant a bottle of champagne 
Some wag remarked, and so the neighbors called 

him 
The name that made him butt of many a jest, 
Both for the battle's and the bottle's sake. 
And yet the while they jeered they envied him 
His knowledge of the whereabouts of each 
And every still in all the county round. 
He swore he knew naught of them, yet he knew 
Enough to keep his nose forever red, 
His legs unsteady and his hands a-tremble. 
However dry the place or sly the police. 

Well, Tom went lurching to the country store 
Only last night, to have the usual jests 
66 



The Passing of Tom Champagne 67 

And banter flung at him. He stood inane 
And simpering there, with sagging mouth that 

told 
The story of his sin, with bloated cheeks, 
Empurpled veins, and eyes like window-panes 
In a dim, haunted house — a thing obscene 
He was with not a spark of manhood in him. 
Then, suddenly, with a low, stricken cry. 
He fell ... lay still ... old Tom Cham- 
pagne was dead! 

And all the free-flung jests and jeers were 

changed 
To whispers full of awe and reverence. 
Tom, who had been one instant past a creature 
To spurn, to spit upon, was now become 
A holy thing, and in the hush that lay 
Upon him brooded mystery ineffable. 
The eyes that, open, had been all unseeing 
Seemed, sealed, to see : gently the eyelids 

closed 
On knowledge calm, transcendent, absolute. 

The face which, but a moment gone, had been 
A crumpled parchment that the hand of evil 
Had blotched and blotted, now was changed, 

transformed 
Into a white illuminated scroll 
On which was writ a Sign inscrutable. 



68 The Waggon and the Star 

We gazed awe-stricken in the flickering light 
Ringed round with darkness. And when 

Arbuthnot, 
The keeper of the store, brought out a piece 
Of sacking to throw over the still form, 
We stayed his hand and sought a strip of 

linen — 
The whitest, finest, to be found, and that 
Was spread upon him, tho it only served 
To make more still the awful stillness of him. 

Well, I must go. We bury him this evening. 
Why should we wait to give him to the arms 
Of Death ? Life made him subject of a sneer. 
But Death has won respect for him at last. 



POINT OF VIEW 

When earth seems dark with envy 

And hate and greed and wars. 

Remember — to the distant 

Inhabitants of Mars 

It flames upon their vision 

A star among the stars ! 



69 



TO A KING-FISHER OR HALCYON 

It's very queer when garbed like that 
In fine dress-suit and white cravat 
To dive into the brook ! 

I'd think that such a bath would hurt 
Your beautiful white-bosomed shirt 
And yet you always look 

Quite freshly starched. No bird before 
Had ever such a pompadour 
As you, you funny imp. 

Why dive for fish when you have bugs 
And gauzy flies and juicy slugs 

And those delicious shrimp ? 

You have the strangest kind of note 
That ever came from feathered throat ~- 
It is not song at all, 

But just a rattle, yet your true 
Devoted wife, as she should do, 
Pretends you're musical. 
70 



To a King-Fisher or Halqfon 71 

And you repay her flattery 
By treating her with gallantry 
As tho you thought it fun 

To housekeep with her by the stream 
In that lush bank, — your days I deem 
Are truly halcyon. 



COMPENSATION 

When wild-plum blossoms fail and fall, 
The dogwood breaks in delicate spray 
Against the forest-green, and all 
The sweet wood-lilies breathe of May. 

When golden bells of jasmine peal 
No more with silent song, we have 
The laurel beautiful to heal 
The hurt the jasmine's passing gave. 

And when the laureFs blushes fade 
And, sighing, we would say — " Too soon 
Does beauty perish " — 'tis unsaid 
For lo, the crimson rose of June ! 

And, roses lost, the holly tree 
Flames against winter's icy breath. 
Thus when your love shall pass from me 
May Nature solace me with death ! 



72 



THE INCONSISTENT PEDLAR 

" Oh who will buy a sceptre, 
Or who a cast-off crown ? 
Who wants a royal signet-ring 
Or an ermine-bordered gown ? " 

Down many a busy city street 
I hear the pedlar cry 
His dusty wares, but all in vain, 
For there is none will buy. 

The sceptre, crown and ring and gown - 
Thus held of little worth — 
He sealed up in a casket 
And he laid them in the earth. 

" When this, our twentieth century. 
Is buried in the past," 
He said, " my children's children 
May dig these up at last. 

And then as curiosities 
I'm sure they will be prized — 
As relics of a time before 
Mankind was civilized ; 
73 



74 The Waggon and the Star 

When nations had to have their toys 
And all such silly things 
As thrones and crowns and ermine gowns 
And emperors and kings." 

The pedlar has no wares to sell ; 
He's old and bent and lame ; 
But a light is in the beggar's eyes ; 
A parchment with his name 

Lies in the buried casket 

Sealed with the royal ring, 

And he hopes his children's children 

Will believe he was a king. 



THE LAND OF UPSIDE DOWN 

The pleasantest place that I ever have known 
Is the magical country of Upside Down. 
I could sit on the bank forever and ever 
And gaze into fairyland down in the river. 
The hills and the trees and the houses and 

meadows 
Are peaceful and cool in the land of the 

shadows, 
But whenever the water is touched by the wand 
Of the wind — good-bye to my fairyland ! 



I wonder whether if I should drown 

I'd live in the land of Upside Down, 

With my head on the floor and my feet on the 

ceiling. 
That might be a very uncomfortable feeling ; 
But there's this advantage — I'd climb the 

trees 
By sliding down them with perfect ease. 
But how could I possibly drink from a cup 
I was holding so funnily down side up ? 
75 



76 The Waggon and the Star 

But this is the hardest puzzle for me ; — 

How can the very highest tree 

In shallow water be straight and tall 

As tho there were no river bottom at all ? 

And the sky is as far away down there 

As the real sky is that is up in the air ! 

More mysterious — much — than Reality 

Town 
Is the land that I love of Upside Down. 



LOVE IS NOT WHOLLY LOST 

Love is not wholly lost to my possessing, 
For often, when I rouse in sweet unrest 
From dreams that have restored to me the 
blessing 
Of your dear, tender form against me pressed. 
My hand, that sleep stirred to its old caressing. 
Curves to the delicate roundness of your 
breast. 

Oh, precious gesture ! In the fear of waking 
Fully to loss and loneliness and cold, 

I keep my iBngers curved till — hope forsaking 
My yearning hand — I know that in my hold 

Is nothingness ; that, tho my heart is breaking. 
You still remain beneath the leaves and 
mould. 



77 



SILENCE 

What do I love the dearest in my wood ? 

The holly berries red 

That swing their censers to the sun ? The bed 

Of violets as white as virgin's snood ? 

The gauzy humming-bird ? 

The scurrying insect-life when moss is stirred 

By an inquiring hand ? 

The odors that the balmy south wind brings ? 

The brown pine-needles carpeting the land 

Richer than any rug from Samarcand ? 

Oh dearly, dearly do I love these things ! 

And yet, of all, I love the silence best — 

The silence of the wood — 

That gently seems to nest 

And nestle in the over-burdened heart ; 

Soft as the feathered breast 

Of yonder thrush that hovers near her brood ; 

Silence that soothes the ache and pain and 

smart 
Of life's swift lash laid on the quivering soul. 
It is a chalice full of sanctities ; 
It is a benediction breathing peace. 
It is as calm, as deep, 

78 



Silence 79 

As cool green wells of sleep 

In which the spirit sinks and is made whole. 

And if from some bird-throat a sudden rill 

Of sound may flow, 

It is but etched against the stillness so 

That all the wood seems even more deeply still. 

Yet most for this I love the silence best, 

That it is big with longings unexpressed 

And lyric with unutterable song ; 

Astir with winds and wings 

That ever with their soundless whisperings 

Uplift my heart and make my spirit strong. 

For silence is as wide 

And boundless as the wide and boundless sea : 

It flows around me in a mighty tide 

Of vast beatitude. 

Oh, may I ever live upon the shore 

Of its beneficent immensity 

That, when life's clamor grows too harsh and 

rude, 
I may steal forth to the great quietude ; 
That I may feel its healing waters pour 
Over my tired soul and wash it clean 
Of trivial things and mean ! 
And thus it is the silence of the wood. 
The silence of renewal and of rest, 
That I love best ; 
Silence that is to-day enfolding me 
And in its bosom holds eternity ! 



DISGUISES 

I saw a lissome form that sped 

As swift as flame thro field and wood, 

And whither her light footsteps led 

Led the desire within my blood, 

Until upon a distant hill 

Weary she stood to wait my will. 

" Joy, you are mine at last ! " I cried : 
"I've followed you o'er moor and lea 
And I have won you for my bride." 
Slowly she turned her face to me : — 
Alas, not Joy but Grief I pressed 
With rapture to my eager breast. 

And when one came in mantle clad 
Of sober grey with veiled face, 
I knew not that her eyes were glad 
And turned me cold from her embrace : 
Too late the sudden moonlight shone 
Revealing Joy — and she was gone ! 

Thus when upon some night of gloom 
And mist, I hear upon my door 
A knock, and see a figure loom 
In Death's habiliments before 
My fading eyes, oh may it be 
Life's face, not Death's, that turns to me ! 
80 



so, IT HAS COME . . . 

So, it has come — this horror that shall gnaw 
In cruel hunger my defenceless breast. 
The home of all my tenderness where nest 
My dearest hopes and loves. The tooth and 

claw 
Of agony shall rend me and shall draw 
My courage drop by drop, till, all possessed 
Of fear, my soul shall be at last the jest, 
The sport, of pain. ... No ! No ! Not 

that ! I saw 
For one black moment, with a coward's eye. 
Only defeat. My soul shall never lie 
Cringing to flesh — the soul that I inherit 
From dauntless thousands that have dared to 

die! 
I summon all the legions of my spirit 
To march with me to death and victory ! 



81 



TO A GIRL OF THE STREETS WHO 
BEFRIENDED FRANCIS THOMPSON 

(Finding the poet in dire distress, she gave him food and 
shelter and tender care, then vanished out of his life, leaving 
no trace. He celebrates her in " Sister Songs") 

Frail flower and pale and pitiful 
That any passer-by might cull 
Out of the London dust, and wear 
A fleeting moment if he found it fair, 
Then with indifferent, careless gesture fling 
Forth to the wind to be blown withering 
Thro noisome ways where never flash of wing 
Is seen or blue of sky or green of spring. 
And night lurks ever in the baleful air : — 

Poor child ! Poor lost one ! — Lovingest, 

tender thing 
He called you whom you found so sore be-sted 
And succored, helped and healed ; 
For whom you broke your scanty, shameful 

bread. 
Knowing but this — that he had suffered wrong 
And that he seemed unloved, uncomforted, 
Needing your ministering. 
82 



To a Girl Who Befriended Francis Thompson 83 

And all the while a rich red rose of song 
Lay on his breast beneath his rags concealed. 

Did some sweet subtle perfume of it, borne 
Upon you keeping vigil, serve to start 
The tears of wistful wonder in your eyes. 
The throb of understanding in your heart ? 
Whence was the knowledge that could make 

you wise 
To see the rose was his and yours the thorn ? 
Did sudden light from some revealing star 
Shine on his sleeping brow, 
Stabbing your brain with its keen scimitar 
To realization full of pain and woe ? 
Mayhap he muttered half -remembered prayers 
Dreaming and fevered and you heard, and knew 
You entertained an angel unawares. 
Howe'er you saw the truth, you too were true. 

You too were true and so you would not stay. 
Your farewell silenced on a stricken tongue, 
Dumbly you crept away. 
Leaving the singer to his lonely song. 
Whatever dark unhallowed paths of sin 
Your weary feet since then have wandered in, 
His song has made you pure and you are 

shriven. 
He places you, a flower. 
Again in the bright coronal of spring. 



84 The Waggon and the Star 

No more to be blown wilted thro the street. 

On dusty, sullen breezes tossed and driven, 

Worn for a passing hour, 

Then trampled beneath hurrying, pitiless feet ; 

But evermore to bloom unwithering 

In virgin freshness beautiful and sweet. 



TO A HOLLY TREE 

I thought these frozen woods were grey and 
quiet — 

So bare of beauty that the heart would find 

Within them solace, rest and sanctuary ; 

But here behold you standing in a riot 

Of startling and unsympathetic red. 

As tho the magic wand 

Of a tormenting fairy 

Had summoned you from some far tropic land 

To flare and flame 

Amid the ashes of the winter's dead 

Before my weary and reluctant eyes ! 
I am too tired to bear your loveHness : 
Then why distract my mind 
With restless thought I fain had left behind 
In the uneasy world ? Have you no shame 
That you in wanton wise 
Your clamorous, insistent beauty press 
Upon my sight ? . . . Ah, well, another time 
I shall find rest — in other land and clime 
Mayhap, not here alas, for beauty here 
In March — June — April, is too penetrant. 
Too poignant for the heart to gain release. 
85 



86 The Waggon and the Star 

And now December, that I thought was sere 
And dun and drab, with all her trees in rags, 
Produces you, disturber of the peace ! . . . 
You conquer ! See ! I yield me to delight 
In your triumphant beauty burning bright ! 
All thoughts of rest avaunt ! 
The banners — courage, hope and faith, you 

flaunt 
In splendid scarlet challenge to despair. 
Then let my spirit fling out all its flags 
To stream with yours upon the inspired air ! 



MY INSTANT 

Because thro twenty times ten million years 
The earth has hung in starry space, yet I 
Have but an hour wherein to live and die — 
An instant only, shall I dim with tears 
My glimpse of earth ? Shall hesitations, fears 
And doubts confound me, or despair defy ? 
No ! Rather shall my voice be lifted high 
In thankfulness that all of time's arrears 
Are paid me in the instant that gives sun 
And moon to me, that makes the wild winds 
mine 
To ride upon. I am a part of thee — 
Spirit of Beauty, spirit of Splendor, one 

In flower and flame ! A moment I am 
thine : — 
Could all eternity give more to me ? 



87 



UNREALITY 

On the banks of the river a willow, 
The daughter of earth and of air. 
Is wooed by the wind's caresses 
And the sun has found her fair. 

But remote in the clear cool water 
From the kiss of the wind or the sun. 
Elusive, her sister of shadows 
Is chaste as a cloistered nun. 

Tender the shade that enfolds her. 
Limpid the light and serene : — 
A willow in shimmering water 
Is green as no other is green. 

The tree in the river is silent. 
The bird-songs all unsung. 
But sweet to the heart is the music 
That never may find a tongue. 

Oh, lovely the shadowy image 

In the hquid dusk of the stream — 

Unreality mystic, enchanting. 

With the lure of desire and of dream ! 

88 



A STUDY IN CONTRASTS 

{Extracts from the Diaries of a Courdry Woman and a City 
Woman.) 

{City Woman) 

The First of February. 

Snow and ice 
Are holding all the city in a vice 
Of cursed quiet at the season's height. 
No matinee ! No tea ! No bridge tonight ! 
And this the sunny South ! 

{Country Woman) 

The snow and hail 
Induced my trees last night to take the veil. 
With reverent heads they stand as tho they 

were 
A sainted congregation bowed in prayer. 
I love this nunnery, with the winter hush 
Upon it ! 



{City Woman) 

Fifth of February. 

This slush 

Is so unhealthy ! Delicate Annette 
Has been house-bound for days. How she 
does fret ! 

89 



90 The Waggon and the Star 

{Country Woman) 

I believe the snow is sent like Santa Claus 
Just for the children. It has been the cause 
Today of such a frolic ! We've been shaking 
The trees to save their laden boughs from 

breaking, 
And many a merry snow-storm of our making 
Has fallen on an unsuspicious head. 
The children came in tingling, rosy-red. 



(City Woman) 

March Fifth. 

I took Annette to see a show : — 
The child must be amused, and so we go 
To " movies," tho " soul mates " and soulful 

kisses 
Are all too educational, I know, 
For little girls of eight. I hope she misses 
At such a picture half the meaning of it. 

{Country Woman) 

Arbutus ! I'm so glad my children love it ! 
All six of them and I had searched together 
The morning long, because we thought this 

weather 
Might coax it out. We found some, shy and 

pink, 



A Study in Contrasts 91 

In the dead leaves. What could I do but sink 
Down on the earth (tho my own secret this) 
And touch the dear wee blossoms with a kiss ? 



{City Woman) 
March Tenth. 

The spring has come ! Gwen 
Vanderloo 
Appeared in a straw hat — a fine one too, 
With a real bird of Paradise. I'm weary 
Of winter clothes, they look so drab and dreary I 
I'm glad the spring has come. 

{Country Woman) 

The spring ! The spring ! 
I knew it by the sudden quickening 
Of one bright bluebird's long-expectant wing : 
Besides, I asked him, and his answer duly 
Came with the sweet assurance — " Tru-ly ! 
Tru-ly ! " 



{City Woman) 
April the First. 

It's raining. What a pity ! 
I can't go shopping in this deluged city. 
I must sit moping here until it clears. 



92 The Waggon and the Star 

{Country Woman) 

When April, the light-hearted, sheds her tears 
They seem like laughter ! I have watched all 

day 
The long bright busy needles of the rain 
Stitching in Nature's wide-spread counterpane 
Patterns of flowers to deck the bed of May. 
I think these April showers wash every stain 
Of age from Earth, making her young again. 



(City Woman) 

May the Fifteenth. 

Gwen Vanderloo is dead ! 
She lived too hard and fast, the doctors said. 
The trouble was exhaustion. What a whirl 
This life is ! Young and care-free as a girl. 
She's gone ! The funeral is to-day. I'll send 
A wreath of lilies, but I must attend 
Two meetings first, and I'll invite a friend 
To lunch to cheer me up. I must not waste 
A single minute, I am in such haste ! 
They'll put Gwen in the city cemetery : 
It's bare and cold, but fashionable — very. 
I do hope nobody will tell Annette 
'That Gwen is dead, she fears death so, the 
pet! 



A Study in Contrasts 



93 



{Country Woman) 

Our kind old neighibor, Ellen Jones, is dead. 
Why grieve ? Or why regret ? Her life was 

led 
In useful leisure and in busy peace 
Among her flowers, beneath her sheltering 

trees. 
I took the children, wishing them to see 
How lovely and how tender death can be. 
Cedars may mourn, but let the holly wave 
Its happy scarlet flags above her grave ! 



TO A HERMIT THRUSH 

Great lyricist, you sing of vanished ships 
Whose spirits haunt the mist-enshrouded dune. 
Or of long-dead, forgotten lovers' lips 
That drank their draughts of joy beneath the 
moon; 

Of Cleopatra's form, of Helen's face, 

Of Caesar's fame : Egypt and Greece and 

Rome 
You know not, but all glory and all grace 
Within your cosmic strains are gathered home. 

And I who feel within my aching breast 
Your own wild, sweet necessity to sing — 
When clouds, rose-petalled, blossom in the west 
Or when arbutus buds are pink with spring, 

I must delay and grope for speech, with art 
Striving — in vain — to capture ecstasy ; 
While unrestrained you pour your lyric heart — 
Your lyric soul itself — upon the sky, 

So clearly soars your pure, celestial song 
Above poor human need of stammering words. 
Ah, that is poetry ! Speech does beauty wrong. 
I think there are no poets save the birds. 
94 



THE TURN OF THE ROAD 

I swing today on Gallows Hill 
Because one maid was fair. 
Because her teeth were white as milk, 
Because her skin was smooth as silk, 
I swing today on Gallows Hill 
With none to heed or care. 

Why did she stand at the turn of the road 
That forked to east and west ? 
" I seek the way to the Temple of Fame," 
I said. She smiled with a mouth like flame 
As she pointed the way to Gallows Hill. 
A curse on the curve of her breast ! 

To west, to east, and the choice must be 

Forever, for good or ill. 

Now answer me, God, if you can, if you dare. 

And answer me, man, is it fair, is it fair. 

Because one maid had a mouth like flame. 

Because her skin was white as milk. 

Because her hair was fine as silk. 

That I who was seeking the Temple of Fame 

Should swing on Gallows Hill ? 



95 



WHY DO YOU IDLE ? 

" Why do you idle by a woodland stream 
Singing alone, aloof, while nations lie 
Stricken and prostrate ? Think you that the 

gleam 
Of moon or star will warm them ? Would you 

try 
To nourish starving men with melody ? " 
Thus they who plow the furrow and sew the 

seam 
Challenge my peace. " We summon you," 

they cry, 
" To labor with us. Dreamer, cease to 

dream ! " 

Scorn me not, brothers ! Know that while 

you spin 
The flax to cover shivering flesh, I weave 
Fabric of dreams to clothe the soul within. 
Toiling at plow and harrow you relieve 
The hunger of the body. I, apart. 
Seek with my song to feed the famished heart. 



96 



RENAISSANCE 

Asleep lay lovely Poesy 

Upon a lilied bed : 

Pale lilies on her heart had she, 

Pale lilies at her head, 

And hly-white her drapery 

Upon the sward was spread. 

As chill her breast as marble, deep 
Her slumber as a swoon ; 
And still the virgin lilies keep 
Their watch from noon to noon. 
Stifled with fragrance she must sleep, 
Tho sun may shine or moon. 



Life waked and wooed her in the glade 
" Behold the gifts I bring ! 
Here is a homespun gown," he said, 
" And here a wedding-ring 
Wrought out of iron that was made 
Where forge-fires leap and sing." 

She laid her draperies aside, 
She flung her lilies down. 



97 



98 The Waggon and the Star 

And holding high her head in pride 
She donned the ring and gown. 
With Life she passed, his wedded bride, 
Eager from town to town. 

He showed her beauty in the dust 

Where men lay grovelling ; 

In crooked hands that begged a crust, 

As in a bluebird's wing ; 

He taught her that from hate and lust 

White flowers of truth might spring. 

And now she walks mid toil and strife — 

Whom lilies lulled to rest. 

Oh, beautiful she is as wife 

In humble homespun dressed 

As evermore she follows Life, 

Red roses on her breast. 



MASKS 

We sat before our hearth-fire, you and I, 
Secure behind our guardian bolts and bars 
From lonely winds, from darkness, from the cry 
Of owls and the cold shining of the stars. 

I thought : — without is mystery, vastness, 

stark. 
Unknowable ; within, your form and face. 
I hold you known against the unknown dark, 
My only hostage against time and space. 

Let night flow round me ! I am unafraid : 
You give me all the certainty I ask. 
I turned to you. A gleam of firelight played 
Upon your face and lo, you wore a mask ! 

" What ! You ? Even you ? " I cried, " Not 

yours that brow, 
Those lips that I have loved ? Through all 

the years 
You have looked at me, as you are looking now. 
With eyes whose painted laughter, painted 

tears, 

99 



100 The Waggon and the Star 

Have mocked me ! I will tear that smile 

away." 
In vain my trembling hands attempt the task. 
You point me to the mirror. I obey 
And see that on my face I wear a mask. 



WHY ARE THE DEAD NOT DEAD? 

Why are the dead not dead indeed who crowd 

Upon me, thus insistent in demands 

On my remembrance ? Why are pale, cold 

hands 
Thrust from enfolding mist as from a shroud 
To clutch my heart ? In moon and fire and 

cloud 
I see lost faces and on desolate sands 
I hear long-silent footfalls. To far lands 
They follow — follow still. I am allowed 
No respite — none — no ease from memory's 

sadness. 
You dead, you loved me once, then grant me 

one — 
Only one hour — of sheer imshadowed glad- 
ness. 
One golden hour of laughter in the sun 
Out of a heart whence thoughts of you are 

sped. . . . 
Then come to me again, beloved dead. 



101 



DEAR, DO I HOPE 

Dear, do I hope to find you far beyond 

The dawn of day, beyond the reach of years, 

Removed from human laughter, human tears ? 

Will you in that diviner air respond 

To love of mine ? Can some ethereal bond 

Endear us as the bond of flesh endears ? 

I do not know. My heart is filled with fears, 

I have so loved the foolish ways and fond 

Of daily living ; loved your hands and eyes. 

Your hair and the deep solace of your breast. 

If these were lost, then what were loving 

worth ? 
My lips on yours, I almost hope the skies 
Beyond our sky will yield us only rest. 
Lest heaven be cold to this, our heaven on 

earth ! 



102 



THE VASE 

I fain would have my verse a vase 

Clear as a Cyprian sky, 
With fair Diana of the chase, 
With nymphs and fauns of sylvan grace. 
Winding forever round its base 

Of veined porphyry. 

And I would pour my thoughts like wine 

Within the vase, and they 
With opalescent light should shine 
Of tranquil seas that crystalline 
Hold the irradiance divine 

Of an eternal day. 

Alas for this, my vase ! It seems 
A thing with failure fraught. 

It can to my desires and dreams 

Impart no iridescent gleams ; 

No lucent splendor from it streams ; 
Of clay my vase is wrought. 



103 



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